


Spite Is a Perfectly Good Motivation to Survive a Zombie Apocalypse

by tallykale



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Zombies, fidds kills some zombies, mild gore i guess?, stanford is pretty useless to be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallykale/pseuds/tallykale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because it’s just too much to ask, clearly, for a weekend where he doesn’t see the inside of something’s skull, and by now he should know that when Stanford says ‘camping trip’ he actually means ‘casual necromancy in the fucking woods, Fiddleford, and maybe some marshmallows if we have time’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spite Is a Perfectly Good Motivation to Survive a Zombie Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> i combined two prompts that i got on tumblr to create this monstrosity, namely "FIDDAUTHOR CAMPING TRIP" and "pls pls write fiddauthor investigating the undead and fidds is bRAVE", both of which i absolutely loved. i have a problem with writing Fiddleford which is that i put him through so much for the sake of his ridiculous self-centred boyfriend, so here's him getting some of his anger out by murdering some dead things. enjoy!

Fiddleford drags a hand down his face and casts a longing look back at the tent, which is starting to sag. Somewhere on the path ahead of him, Stanford is elaborating on his theory that the correct frequency could destabilise a zombie’s skull; there’s lots of hand-waving and long words involved, which is usually thoroughly endearing, but all Fiddleford can think about is how he left his banjo at home. The one-person sleeping bag (singular, but not because Stanford is a suave seducer of men as he might like to believe: rather, the other one had had a spider in it, so– of course– it’s now residing in the smoldering campfire) is temptation incarnate right now.

He sighs, and shoulders the bag of weapons (a chainsaw, two axes, and a single rusted golf club that they found underneath the front porch: neither of them have ever played a hole in their combined lives), jogging reluctantly to catch up with Stanford in the russet light. It could have been beautiful– the sun setting, catching the leaves and grass alight in orange tones and sending dazzling highlights through his partner’s hair; the sounds of the woods all around them, animals and gentle wind like a whisper; the potential romantic atmosphere waiting in the wings, patiently holding for a cue to waltz out and make both of them erupt in sweet nothings and blushes– it could have been a _date_ , if he wasn’t on it with Stanford Pines, oblivious fool nonpareil.

Fiddleford contemplates the entire conversation that led him here; examines it from every angle, and comes to the conclusion that Stanford is _absolutely awful at explaining himself_.

“Fidds, what do you say about a little camping trip up in the woods this weekend? Just us, and we can take the tent and have a proper go at a campfire and everything! We might even find something interesting up there, you never know.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, dear. I’m about to go into town for groceries, so should I pick up some marshmallows to roast?”

See? Nothing about zombies in that exchange whatsoever. Fiddleford feels deceived.

* * *

It’s a hike and a half to the clearing where the bodies are supposed to be buried, four nondescript stones propped up as makeshift grave markers. There’s an atmosphere that makes Fiddleford reluctant to step over the bushes that border the area, like he’s intruding into something private, or people have been talking about him just before he entered a room– but it dissipates easily with the clank of metal when he unceremoniously dumps the weapons on the ground and sits, sulkily, on a gnarled root. Just because he’s being forced to play party to this ridiculous quest to raise the dead–  _honestly, raise the dead! I tell you_ , he thinks,  _I don’t know why on earth I put up with him._ But that’s a lie and he knows it; he moodily admits to himself that spending time with Stanford at all is infinitely better than any alternative, despite third-wheeling corpses and a thorough lack of romance. Nevertheless, he’s not going quietly: he heaves a dramatic sigh and glares pointedly at Stanford’s back where he’s crouched, transcribing from a scroll into the journal. Stanford either doesn’t notice or refuses to deign such disrespect with a reply, and only stands up when he finishes with a loop and a swirl of his pen.

“Well! This incantation should successfully reanimate these corpses, as long as they’re still mostly whole. There, ah, might be some side-effects if they were sacrificed, or–” he frowns, pursing his lips, “ritualistically murdered, but. No time like the present to find out, eh, Fidds?” He sounds genuinely _excited_ , which is awful, and he turns to Fiddleford with that smile of his, which is even worse. Fiddleford sighs again, though with less spectacle, and gets up with a rueful twist of his mouth.

 “Ab-so-lutely, Stanford. Where do you need me to be?” He may not want to be here, but he’s not a complete jerk– and he knows firsthand that these situations can turn bad terrifyingly quickly. Better to be safe and sorry, even if safe means that he’s missing out on what could have been a lovely night with his wholly alive boyfriend, because sorry in this case entails being devoured by the undead.

“Mm. What? Oh, just watch the perimeter. Can’t have one of these escaping and heading towards town.”

So Fiddleford begrudgingly takes the golf club in one hand and stands in position at a gap between two trees. The air positively hums.

Stanford stows the journal in an inside pocket and reads directly from the scroll, because he is an insufferable show-off with a flair for theatrics. It’s in Latin, which never bodes well.

“ _Corpus levitas_!” And the sun is sinking below the treeline, turning everything from orange to a haunting red to a knife-edge blue. “ _Diablo dominus_!” And now it’s tinged with a worrying green and a hollow feeling in his stomach, and he takes an involuntary step back. “ _Mondo vicium_!” And then, of course, of _course_ , a hand breaks the brittle soil and reaches towards the sky, grasping, rotting. (He doesn’t throw up from sheer force of will and spiteful desire to hold his own in this adventure, just so he can say I-told-you-so when they’re crammed in a too-small sleeping bag in a sagging tent later that night.)

So, this is how his evening is going, he supposes: a zombie clambers up from the dirt and gives a rattling cry, skin in tatters and an eye hanging from a socket; ocular jelly slides sickeningly down its cheek, towards a jaw connected by shriveled flesh on one side only. Its body is appropriately emaciated for something that’s spent thirty-odd years in the ground, clothing hanging lank from its frame as it contorts, trying to prise itself from the ground with underused muscles. When it stands, crooked, it shambles towards Stanford, favouring a particularly wasted ankle and looking just as menacing and gruesome as Fiddleford had imagined; poetically, lightning forks the sky in the same moment that the zombie groans and extends a hand, clutching, seizing, at Stanford’s heaving chest.

Sadly, Fiddleford’s been on worse dates.

Stanford jumps back from the corpse, hastily pulling the journal from inside his coat, as two– three more hands emerge from the ground and set to work pulling themselves out and upright; Fiddleford falls easily into a defensive stance, palms clammy on the grip of the golf club, and shouts, “Well, ain’t this absolutely _perfect_ , darling!”

But his partner is too busy annotating an illustration with one hand, and holding the other in the middle of the first zombie’s concave chest, journal propped on his forearm, to reply to his sarcasm. His tongue is sticking out, like it always is when he’s concentrating hard on something that’s trying equally hard to kill him, and Fiddleford feels a great surge of love and spite in his gut as he swings the club in an arc towards the nearest rotting skull, which has its sights set on the unlucky assistant, apparently. (If they both die in this godforsaken forest researching the _godforsaken undead_ , then he’s using whatever afterlife he gets to make sure Stanford knows that zombies do not constitute appropriate date activities.) The metal sinks too easily into the flesh and holds fast, and Fiddleford has to swallow back another wave of nausea; what should have been a near-fatal blow, however, barely gives the zombie pause: it takes a moment to claw at the iron embedded in its cranium before giving it up as a lost cause and attempting to continue on its path towards Fiddleford. He uses the shaft of the club to keep it at a distance, though the green-tinged hands flail far too close for comfort. It’s raining now, lightly, but in the way that tastes like a harbinger of doom; _a zombinger_ , he thinks to himself, only slightly hysterically.

“Have you finished taking notes yet, Stanford, because I just realised: wow! I actually _don’t want to get eaten alive by resurrected corpses_! Who would have guessed!” Fiddleford shouts over the collective din of the growing storm and three fully-emerged undead (the last one appears to have a root growing through its ribcage and is confined, thank god, to the earth, despite its best efforts to the opposition). And there’s a panicked edge to Stanford’s movements now, eyes darting to the corpse unhindered by his hand– they’re actually faster than either of them had expected, for things that should have no muscle mass or stable bones. Ah, but that’s the supernatural for you: a middle finger in the face of reason and fairness, and now you have zombies trying to drag you down to the bowels of the earth. _C'est la vie_ , he thinks, from afar.

“Uh, hold on just a moment, Fidds! I’m trying to see if there’s any sort of heartbeat in here–” and then the ribcage Stanford’s hand was braced against is cracking open wetly and engulfing his wrist, and the zombie is so close to his face, and Fiddleford doesn’t have time to think about frequencies that shatter a skull before he’s twisting to grab an axe and throwing it, deadly-fierce, at the open neck of the corpse. It strikes with a horrible dullness, and the momentum of it carries the zombie to the side– Fiddleford catches a glimpse of Stanford’s hand, shaking and covered in slime and viscera, as he wrenches it free– and then there’s an almighty thunderclap and they’re running.

“Enlighten me as to why I ever go on these _research excursions_ with you, please!” Fiddleford shouts when his lungs finally accept a ragged breath; they’re both pelting down the trail towards the camp, though Stanford keeps looking over his shoulder wistfully at the clearing they left behind. Ragged groans weave in between thunderclaps, and now that the zombies have found their rhythm, they won’t be far behind. True to form, the rain is only getting worse, like the clouds have decided that Fiddleford was still having a decent day, and deserves to be taken down a peg or three for thinking that the weather might be on his side. He’s still clutching the bag of weapons, reduced to a single axe (all rotten-brittle handle and rusted head) and the chainsaw, which he’s now recalling they didn’t think to test at all: it may as well be an unwieldy hunk of metal in their hands. Surprisingly, though, Fiddleford isn’t scared: he’s _frustrated_ , and sick to death of Stanford putting himself in danger because he doesn't seem to realise that martyrdom in the name of science is not as glorious as he thinks.

“Because they’re interesting! I’ve already learned so much from observation, and we can test out my theory on vibrational frequencies when the zombies catch up–”

“Contrary to what you might think, Stanford, ‘interesting’ does not mean ‘exceedingly willing to maim, kill, or devour us’! Some of us actually _like_ being alive, and like their _boyfriend_ being alive, too!” He very deliberately ignores the way Stanford said _when_ with enthusiasm, and keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead– before promptly falling ass-over-ears over a rock that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago.

The weapons dig into his back when he comes to a sliding stop, only outstripped in uncomfortableness by the mud that is now seeping through his flimsy cotton shirt and probably permanently marking his skin as a memento of when he made a fool of himself while running for his life. Though, thinking on it (which is all he seems to be able to do, staring up at the churning clouds and covered in dirt), his life is about to end very shortly, so the possibility of public humiliation is relatively low. Really, what he _should_ be concerned about is–

A guttural moan breaks into his astoundingly calm train of thought.

Ah, right. The undead.

Suddenly, there’s a hand in front of his face– whole, thankfully, and with six fingers– and he takes it, and is pulled to his feet quite gracefully, all things considered. Stanford looks torn between worry and longing to give his attention to the corpses steadily advancing upon them, and Fiddleford sighs for at least the third time that evening. Then he concedes, for at least the thirtieth time that week.

“Look, if we’re going to– _observe_ these things any more, then can we at least do it with a fire at our backs, and closer to the car? I know I can’t stop you, but–” He can’t seem to finish the sentence, and it takes Stanford a moment to stop turning his head rapidly between the ensuing death behind them and his very much alive partner in front of him. He bites his lip, taps the pen on his leg; but he nods, and takes Fiddleford’s hand in his again, and they carefully jog the last stretch to the campsite together.

When they get there– well, at least the tent is still partially upright.

The fire is nonexistent (which might have had more to do with the nylon sleeping bag choking the embers than the rain, but that’s neither here nor there) and the ground is dark and muddy, thanks to the rain that’s getting heavier and more emotionally taxing by the second. Fiddleford sighs again and cracks his knuckles, and then crouches down, making a token attempt to poke at the coals. It’s a pointless endeavour, though, and the only comfort of being here rather than anywhere else in the woods is the fact that the car sits comfortingly a few yards away. Stanford makes a noise like he was about to say something condescending but thought better of it before it left his mouth; Fiddleford rocks back on his heels and presses his fingers to his temples. The zombies will be here in a few minutes, if that.

“You know–”

Fiddleford whips around in an instant, pointing aggressively into Stanford’s broad chest. “If you say you want to get a closer look, or just need one more minute taking notes, or that you have to observe their behaviour when– feeding on prey or something like that, I am taking this car and _leaving_ you here, I swear.” Nearly every word is punctuated by another stab of his finger, and by the end of his tirade his other hand is wound into the peppered-grey streak in his hair. Stanford’s face is shocked for a moment, but he at least has the awareness to look apologetic after that.

“Well. Actually. I was going to say–” He holds up his hands in conciliation at the still-blazing look in his partner’s eyes. “I was _going_ to say that I’ve been thinking about my theory– you know, the vibrational frequencies and all that– and I think it might work with a harmony.” His face softens a bit and he moves his hands to gently hold Fiddleford’s accusatory one, still pressed into his sternum. (His left hand is still tacky with blood and fluid from being inside a corpse’s abdomen, but neither of them mention that.) “Please, Fidds. I know you’ve been a bit– ah, tonight hasn’t been the best night for you. And I’m sorry, I really am! You put up with so much for my sake; you’re so patient, love, even when I’m raising the dead, and I promise I’ll make it up to you when we’re finished–” And like a fool, Fiddleford lets his mouth curl up at the corner, and Stanford kisses the smile out of his lips.

“What do you need me to do, dear? I’m no great shakes at singing– banjo’s more my forte, y’see,” he says when they’re holding each other closer. He’s not finished being angry– not by a long shot– but he’s willing to play along with Stanford’s plans and theories if it’ll help them stay alive for a make-up date.

“Well! We just need to find the balance between our vocal ranges– I’ll take lower, you’d make an excellent soprano– and hit the right frequency to destabilise the structure of their skulls…” Stanford trails off muttering and biting his lips, his eyes darting in the way they do when he’s calculating something immeasurable in his head. Though he doesn’t share his results, he seems satisfied, and nods firmly at Fiddleford. “When they get here, just follow my lead. Try to match my note, but maybe, ah, an octave higher?” It’s a bit worrying that he waves his hand in the universal sign of _let’s just wing it_ when it’s the undead they’re talking about, but, well. A total disregard for safety procedures and common sense is part of what makes Stanford so essentially _Stanford_ , and somewhere in Fiddleford’s chest he knows they’ll get through this intact. Mostly. Probably.

Despite the plan (though it’s so disorganised it shouldn’t even deserve to be called a plan), Fiddleford holds tight to the flimsy shaft of the remaining axe as the dead continue their inexorable path towards the camp. They’re dim in the fading light and rain, but getting closer with each passing second.

As the impossible, twisted corpses finally take those impossible, twisted steps into the clearing, Stanford begins– well, it’s hard to call it _singing_ , exactly; more of a meandering warble, and for all that Fiddleford trusts in Stanford’s intelligence, his voice is another matter entirely. The zombies falter, but in confusion, rather than their heads exploding or anything like that. _I’m going to die singing awfully at zombies,_ he realises, _and I didn’t even get to roast marshmallows tonight._ At a sharp look from Stanford, Fiddleford hesitantly opens his own mouth and _something_ comes out, that’s for sure. It’s approximately in tune with the other voice that’s blaring through the trees, and he keeps up, half a step behind, as Stanford starts varying his pitch.

And so they’re singing a horrible duet at their sad, sad campsite, shrinking back from the advancing corpses. (One of them still has the golf club embedded in its soft skull, and when it moves its head, the shaft rotates with a sickening sound.) That potential air of romance Fiddleford felt earlier is retreating further into the background, until it turns tail and flees the scene completely.

Finally, when he has to take a heaving breath in and stop singing for a moment, Fiddleford gasps out, “It’s not _working_ , Stanford!” One of the zombies strikes out at his shoulder and he jolts back, lashing out with the axe in his opposite hand and feeling it slice into soft flesh. He swallows down bile.

“I can _see that_ , Fidds, thank you ever so much!” Stanford cries, aiming a hesitant left hook at the nearest zombie, looking haunted as his fist sinks into its torso. (There’s something about the way he stares at his fist after the punch, as well, like he’s looking at a face he never thought he’d see again, and Fiddleford never asks about it.) He falls back and crouches behind his partner’s taller frame, and then, what he says–

“I– I’m sorry, Fiddleford, I was– gah! I was wrong! Help, please!”

– well, that’s probably the point where Fiddleford decides that spite is a perfectly good motivation to survive a zombie apocalypse.

He puts a long-fingered hand on Stanford’s shoulder and pulls him in for a quick, decidedly _not_ -last-moments kiss, before pushing him aside and hefting the axe in his hand. Three zombies in front of him: one directly ahead, the remaining two flanking it on either side. He has absolutely _had it_ with the entire night, with the undead, with thunderstorms, with Latin scrolls, with headstrong boyfriends, with unsuccessful campfires and saggy canvas tents– _Oh._

And there’s a plan worthy of being called a plan. Maybe even The Plan, with the capitals and all.

It’s mindless work: he swings the axe, over and over, into sunken flesh and brittle bone, slowing the zombies enough so he can reach the other side of the campsite, kick at the collapsed tent, and– yes! The tarp they’d chanced to bring stopped the canvas from being soaked through; it’s a lightheaded thanks that he sends to the clouds, or whatever god is in charge of rain and tarpaulins. He knocks all three zombies back with an arcing blow, and uses the precious moments to turn and grab the pooled fabric from beneath crumpled plastic. With luck, he can spin and engulf the corpses before they reach him– so, _of course_ , a strangled cry comes from Fiddleford’s peripheral vision, and there’s Stanford thrashing the dead chainsaw at a zombie from where he lies, fallen, on the ground. He looks quite pathetic, really.

(He’d never admit it afterwards, but for a moment, Fiddleford honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh at the sight or help him.)

The tent is abandoned and he takes three long strides to where Stanford is prone in the mud: the axe feels like an extension of his arm now, and it hooks into the zombie’s collarbone, yanking it back harshly to where the other two seem to be deciding which target is the more profitable to go for. Fiddleford doesn’t give them enough time to make a decision; he pulls Stanford to his unsteady, grateful feet, and then reaches into his partner’s coat for the handheld blowtorch he knows is there. (As Stanford has said, exasperated, multiple times: honestly, what self-respecting researcher of the supernatural and generally weird _doesn’t_ carry a butane-fueled weapon on their person at all times?) Stanford tenses for a moment at the hand palming around his waist, and then deflates a bit when Fiddleford emerges with the can clutched in his fist, as if he’s disappointed that his partner– his _assistant_ – would be the one to set something on fire tonight. He gets a bit territorial with his scientific arson, sometimes.

In a flash, Fiddleford is back at the tent, and tucks a weapon underneath each arm, and is pulling out the canvas like a tablecloth, flourishing; that flourish moves more towards _flailing_ the material towards the three corpses that have begun moving back towards him. (Stanford was last spotted sprinting– making a _tactical retreat_ – towards the car; Fiddleford can’t find it within him to be really angry with him for that part, but the thought of the rest of the evening stirs up enough righteous fury for a lifetime.)

 _Finally_ , The Plan comes to fruition as the tent is thrown bodily over the zombies, a weighted net, and they stumble back together; refusing to let the rain ruin anything more, Fiddleford darts forward and pulls the trigger on the blowtorch. _Thank god for flammable tents_ , he thinks, as the fire comes to life: spreading easily, and spilling out from his white knuckles on the can, for long, long minutes.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for the screams to stop, but when they do, the woods feel very still around him; the orange heat crackling, but nothing else alive or undead makes a noise.

The rain stops falling and it’s like he can breathe. Stanford emerges, face flushed, from behind the car; he’s still holding the useless chainsaw to his chest like a lifeline. There’s shame in the quirk of his mouth, like Fiddleford’s already said his well-deserved I-told-you-so and Stanford’s accepted it, and they both give each other a tired, gentle smile. (He’ll still take full advantage of his right to say it later, of course, but bragging has never been his thing.)

“You know, there’s still a zombie stuck up in the clearing, Stanford,” Fiddleford says, with so much less spite in his voice than there could be. “As long as you don’t try to sing at it again, I’m happy to go and torch it with you.” And the most terrible thing: it tastes like flirting.

Well, they were never traditionally romantic, after all.

* * *

They’ve made it halfway home before Stanford scrapes up the courage to say anything.

“You were, ah. Really great out there tonight, Fidds,” he says sheepishly, sketching something in the journal, an excuse to look away from Fiddleford’s face. “I know I lost my head, and if you hadn’t been there to help, then. There would have been one more undead wandering the woods tonight, eh?” _But_ , his tone seems to say, _I’ve figured out where I went wrong, so aren’t I terribly smart?_

“Mhm. You’re welcome, dear.” He pauses, eyes on the road, and awaits the inevitable.

“But–” _Of course, here it comes._ “– I really think I was on to something with the frequency thing. It just needed something else– a three-part harmony! Another person!  So it wasn’t anything wrong with our voices after all,” Stanford says, carefully reining in his excitement. “If we could just get another voice– in the middle of ours, I think, but we can’t really go spreading this around…” _God, he actually wants to try it again._

Fiddleford smiles sideways at him. “Y’know, we never got to roast marshmallows after all.” There’s fireflies in the night sky, and he won’t say I-told-you-so just yet. “We can cook them in the fireplace, if you like, and then tomorrow we can talk about our next, um. Camping trip.”  He very carefully enunciates the last two words, and he makes a mental note to explain that generally camping doesn’t mean hunting the undead.

In the end, though, incinerating a corpse half-out of the ground was pretty enjoyable when Stanford’s hand (wiped free of Various Disgusting And Unromantic Fluids And Viscera, at last) was held tight in his.

Maybe he’ll explain after the next camping trip, after all.


End file.
